The Dirt Eaters (6 page)

Saint holds out his left arm, the ladder of scars glistening white. He pushes the blade between two of the scars, drawing blood. He takes Roan's sodden arm, making a similar cut, then lets his own blood drip into Roan's wound.

“We are Brothers. For Eternity.”

The company of Friends repeats: “Brothers. For Eternity.”

Each of the brethren, one by one, press their arms against Roan's, scars against his open wound, saying: “We are Brothers.” When all seventy-five have finished, Saint hands Roan the sword.

“His blade will free the world. We serve the Friend.”

Seventy-six voices join together. “His blade will free the world. We serve the Friend.”

Roan feels himself being raised up by ten hands as the Five, smiling, surround him.

Saint gazes into Roan's eyes. “The Friend welcomes you.”

“You are welcome!” shout all the Brothers, cheering him.

Roan's never felt so celebrated.

“
THEY MAKE YOU FEEL POWERFUL.
”

He feels giddy, elated, extraordinary.

“
THEY MAKE YOU FEEL LOVED.
”

As various Brothers shake his hand, pat him on the back, embrace him, Roan beams with delight.

“
AND ARE YOU
?
ARE YOU REALLY
?”

Roan sees the rat from his dreams sitting on the shore.

“
WHO IS THE FRIEND
?
WHO ARE THESE BROTHERS
?”

Roan looks at his new Brothers. He sees Feeder on the shore, watching jealously, doing his best to smile. Raven is grinning, but also scanning Roan's body, as if searching for the best place to slip in a knife. Saint, proud, triumphant, appears full of secrets.

It's true. Despite all his time here, Roan doesn't know anything about these men.

“
NO. YOU DO NOT.
”

Roan is carried on the Brothers' shoulders back down the stream. His elation has faded. All the cheering and congratulations seem hollow. They enter the meal tent to feast on roasted eggs, fresh juices, and meats. All the while, Roan smiles and nods at the Brothers' good wishes. But the food is dry in his mouth.

THE RED-HAIRED WOMAN

OF THE PROPHET'S ORIGINS, RUMORS ABOUND. NOT BORN OF WOMAN BUT OF ICE AND FIRE. ICE FOR THE COLD STEEL HE WIELDED TO SMITE THE WARLORDS. AND FIRE FOR THE NEW LIFE HE BREATHED INTO THE SOULS HE FREED FROM SLAVERY.

—
ORIN'S HISTORY OF THE FRIEND

“W
E NEED
to talk.”

Determined to get to the bottom of Feeder's cryptic comments, Roan has sought him out. He's decided on the direct approach.

“About what?” Feeder mumbles, not looking up from the cabbage he's chopping.

“What did you mean, ‘one comes, one goes'?

“It's a blessing,” he says, shrugging Roan off. “We say it to all the initiates.”

Feeder looks past Roan wen he hears the sound of Saint's motorcycle pulling up behind them. Without so much as a glance at Roan, he picks up his cabbage and retreats into the cook tent.

Saint, the bike still idling, motions Roan to join him.

“Do you have some business with him?” asks Saint.

“Not really,” says Roan.

“Good. I have something special to show you.”

Roan climbs on the motorcycle and they burn off, going down a trail that takes them onto the fertile plain. They pass flat sections of land where plants are being harvested by rugged farmers. As they pass, the people smile and wave at Saint, who lifts his hand in greeting.

“Over there!” Saint shouts back through the wind.

He points to a big parcel of land that's covered in the herbal plants Roan picked with Brother Asp.

“We're reclaiming all that, thanks to you!”

Roan gazes on the fields with pleasure. The farmers have implemented the plans he found for them in the book on soil decontamination. His father would have been proud.

Saint roars on, eventually coming to a village gate. Its wall is armored with a strange collection of flattened metal barrels, ancient car parts, and iron sheeting. A woman, red hair flow­ing past her shoulders, looks down from the guard tower and smiles broadly. She puts her fingers to her mouth, letting out a piercing whistle. The gate clanks open, and Saint and Roan motor in.

From up on the guard towers and beside the gates, a dozen brawny women holding crossbows and spears shout greetings to Saint.

Saint shuts off the engine, and they step off the bike. Roan's surprised by the apparent strength of these women, the first females he's seen since joining the Brothers.

“This is my village,” Saint says, as the red-haired woman strides up and kisses him hard on the mouth.

“Roan, this is Kira. Kira, Roan.”

Kira is tall and muscular, roughly the same age and nearly the same size as Saint. She slaps Roan on the shoulder. “You
are
sturdy, aren't you? Saint's told me all about you, Roan of Longlight.”

“What has he told you?” Roan asks.

“Oh, you don't want to know!” she laughs. Saint, blushing, laughs too. Then she pokes Roan in the ribs. “Only good things, kid! He can't stop bragging about you! C'mon, let's eat.”

She puts her arm around Roan and guides him down a cobblestone path. As they pass rows of houses with salvaged metal walls and sod roofs, Roan marvels at how Kira speaks to Saint. Her joke made the great man blush!

When they arrive at Kira's house, Roan is astounded by its opulence. Solar heaters and lights, stained glass and polished wooden tables. He turns down a hallway, and through the beads that cover a door he sees a beautiful baby nursery. He continues on to the living room, where a huge mural shows an armored warrior bursting out of a stone, sword lifted to the sky. The Friend, Roan guesses. Roan looks up. A ceiling mural shows the same scene as the statue at Saint's altar: the Friend is slaying the bull, surrounded by the dog, the snake, the bird, and the scorpion.

“Do you like it?” asks Saint.

“It's beautiful. How long have you lived here?”

“No time at all. I'm simply a frequent visitor.” Saint chortles. “No one possesses Kira.”

“I could possess him, if I wanted,” smiles Kira. “I like loving a Prophet, but I can't think of anything that would be more annoying than living with one!”

Laughing, Saint kisses her.

Saint's comfort around Kira, the way they joke together, reminds Roan of his parents. For a moment he allows himself the fantasy—then he notices the mantelpiece, on which sit two human skulls.

Kira steps over to them. “This one is my mother. This one is the man who killed my mother.” Kira points out a hole in the second skull. “And this is where my spear pierced him. That moment gave my life back to me.” She looks at Roan with sad eyes. “Saint told me what happened to your people. I'm sorry you haven't had the chance yet to make your peace. The day you execute your parents' killers, that day the pain that strangles you will release its grip.”

For a moment, Roan pictures his father standing beside him, looking at those skulls, silent, eyes brimming with tears. Roan longs to have him back, to embrace him, to ask his help.

Saint pats Roan on the shoulder. “You'll have your day, my friend, I swear it.”

The aroma of a steaming casserole draws them to the table. Kira stands behind the chair at its head, lowers her eyes, and speaks.

“Friend who brings us this food, we thank you. Friend who brings us together, we thank you. We pray for the day you will rule.”

“So be it,” says Saint. The three of them sit, and Kira lifts the lid.

The meal is simple, a goat curry with potatoes and blue beans. Although Roan doubts he'll ever get used to the smell of meat, he has no trouble consuming Kira's spicy stew. She could teach Feeder a few things.

“Were both of you raised in this village?” asks Roan.

“No,” replies Kira. A somberness weighs upon the word.

“You came here after your mother died?”

“Exactly.”

“How old were you when you took your revenge?”

“Younger than you. But we'd been enslaved for years before I found my opportunity to strike.”

“What was it like, being a slave?”

Roan immediately wishes he hadn't asked so rude a question. But Kira doesn't seem bothered by it. “I understand your curiosity.” Her eyes bristle with intensity. “Before the Friend came into my life, I wished for my death every single day.”

Roan looks over at Saint. The Prophet's jaw is clenched, the muscle in his cheek moving.

“It's a history we share,” Saint murmurs.

Roan feels the cricket tickle the palm of his hand. He finds his eyes focusing deeply on Saint and Kira, seeing beyond their faces into the past. Beatings, endless drudgery, witnessing the murder of loved ones; nothing to cherish, everything to fear; hunger, pain, loneliness. They gained their dignity by denying their torturers' delight in their suffering. They were raised in violence, and now they embrace it. Roan thinks of his life in Longlight. Every day a gift, every day designed to make him stronger. Love that continues to surround and protect him.

Kira pulls the thin recorder from Roan's pocket. “You play that thing?”

“I'm learning.”

“Play something for me.”

“I'm just a beginner.”

“Please,” coaxes Kira.

Roan sighs, lifts the recorder to his lips, and plays a simple tune of Longlight, one his mother used to whistle.

“What a lovely song,” Kira says. “Who taught you to play?”

“No one. But a friend of mine took lessons. He started with three-finger tunes like this one.”

“Did many play music in Longlight?”

“Yes, almost everyone. I was supposed to start learning guitar.”

“You'll become accomplished at the recorder instead,” Kira says.

“I suppose,” Roan replies, saddened that the music of Long­light will never be heard again.

When the meal is over, Saint pushes his plate away.

“I have a few things to discuss with Kira,” he tells Roan. “Why don't you explore the village?”

“Here,” Kira says, handing Roan some candies. “Some­thing to sweeten your day.”

Roan steps outside, the sun warm on his face, rolling a candy over his tongue. Kira's house is completely covered in flattened metal. Even the roof is polished tin. Curious, he wanders around the side, examining the craftsmanship. In Longlight, there had never been access to the quantities of metal he's seeing here.

As he passes under a window, he hears Saint's low voice, and it is bristling with irritation. Quietly, Roan moves close to the wall, listening.

“I don't confide in Raven. He travels everywhere and knows no master.”

There's a pause, and then Kira speaks, cheerlessly. “We lost the baby.”

“Not another.”

“We tried everything.”

Saint sighs. “There will be more.”

“And Roan?”

“I hope I get answers before they do.”

“You haven't discovered why they needed them both?” Kira asks.

“No. He has many abilities. He reads and learns incred­ibly fast. He's as good as our best warriors, with only months of training. Stinger says Roan's focus is like none he's ever seen. He suspects there's more beneath the surface that Roan doesn't yet trust enough to show. But why is the City so desperate for both? My instincts say it's related to that cricket.”

“Some say the snow cricket is a mark.”

“The mark of a Dirt Eater.”

There's a silence. Then Saint speaks, his words tentative.

“There must be a connection.”

“What if...”

“
That,
we dare not even suspect.”

“It's why the Friend brought you to him.”

Saint sighs. “We will protect him.”

“For how long? He will learn the truth.”

“He will have what he wants, when the time comes. Now that you've met him, can you blame me?”

“No.”

Silence. Roan strains to hear more, but they're no longer talking. He moves away, striding over the cobblestones, anxiously pondering what he's heard. He wonders if Kira and Saint knew he was listening, if they were speaking for his ben­efit. But does it matter? By “both,” could they mean him and Stowe, his sister? Does Saint know if the City has her? And what is a Dirt Eater?

“
WE ARE DIRT EATERS.
”

“You?”

No reply. Roan devotes all his concentration to conjuring up his dream teachers, wanting to know more. He focuses, calling them with his mind. But they do not appear.

Roan's futile efforts are soon interrupted by the beating of a drum. He walks toward the booming rhythm. Turning a corner, he's struck by a cacophony of sights, smells, and sounds. A marketplace. People, brightly dressed in robes and dresses of vermilion, scarlet, and emerald, mill about the stalls. They haggle, some over the price of fruit and vegetables, others over stuff Roan's seen only in books, antiquities recovered from the Abominations.

He stares in awe at the displays. There are dozens of watches—round ones, square ones, silver and gold—and ticking clocks that all show a different time; yellow rubber ducks, green plastic frogs, red and blue fish, every size of plastic container, some melted around the edges; thousands of shiny discs, large and small, with strange images emblazoned on them; televisions, toasters, blenders, computers, telephones. Many of the appliances look as if they could be made to work, if only a power source still existed. Roan examines them all.

“Interested in rubber ducks?” barks a woman, big and strong like Kira. “I can give you a very good deal if you take more than three.” Roan steps out into full view from behind the display. Seeing him, the woman retreats. “Pardon me, Brother, I meant no offense.”

“None taken,” replies Roan.

“You wouldn't happen to be the new initiate, would you?”

“Yes,” nods Roan. The woman steps back and breaks out in a wide smile. “It was you, then, who taught Brother Asp!”

“No, no, he's my teacher.”

“Weren't you the one who read the book to Brother Asp?”

“He reads!” says an eavesdropper, moving closer.

“I only read him the one book.”

Within moments, several townspeople have joined them. A rotund man exclaims, “We're reclaiming acres of farmland thanks to you, Brother.”

Roan, flattered, corrects him. “I'm not a Brother yet.”

“Thanks be to the Friend for bringing you to our land,” says the man.

“You know the Prophet?” asks a sad-eyed woman. She looks only a few years older than Roan, and she's obviously pregnant.